


Pep Rally

by QLaLa



Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Lingerie, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9674699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QLaLa/pseuds/QLaLa
Summary: "I thought the whole school heard about the race," Cisco said, grinning. "Barry bet Iris that he could beat her 400 meter time, and she called his bluff. If he won, he got to use her Jeep for his road test next week. But if he lost—and oh, did he ever lose—he had to wear her old cheer uniform to class on the day of the next varsity meet."(Alternatively, the Breakfast Club AU nobody asked for.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enemiestolovers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enemiestolovers/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Pep Rally](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13266624) by [MaryNevskaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryNevskaya/pseuds/MaryNevskaya)



> Dedicated to my beta Elizabeth, who helped me outline the first draft of this at 4 a.m., and John Hughes, who would probably hate every word.

Len could think of a dozen better ways that he could be spending his Saturday, none of which involved parking his motorcycle out front of his high school at 7 o’clock in the morning. Well, he amended, maybe one of them did. But in that scenario he was in and out in under an hour and left with a couple dozen lifted credit cards; today, he had detention.

Mick was already sitting at a long wooden table in the library when Len walked in. He slung his bag over the back of the empty chair next to Mick’s, gave him a brief nod, then dropped into the seat. He turned his bored gaze on the other end of the table, but tilted his head, intrigued, when he recognized the pair huddled there. Snow and Ramon were well known to most of their graduating class, given that they were locked in a dead heat for valedictorian. He wasn’t so much surprised to see them in detention, though, as he was to see them without Barry Allen. 

The three were practically inseparable; not unlike him and Mick, really. When they weren’t taking up entire tables in the cafeteria, they were clustered in the hall around their lockers in the science wing. They had a few different extracurriculars between them, but whenever one competed—be it in a track meet or a chess tournament—the other two were in the stands, whistling and cheering them on.

Barry’s foster sister, Iris West, was with the trio more often than not. The class always knew when she was getting serious with someone when she started inviting them over to the group’s cafeteria table. It was Eddie Thawne recently, and had been for a while. Len only knew her in passing but she seemed like a good fit with the others, a pretty blonde girl who was earnestly terrible at field hockey and looked at Iris like she’d hung the moon. 

Len tried not to pay any particular attention to their little gang, but it was a small school, and the entire group of them was unnervingly friendly. He realized he was staring now though, when Mick turned his head to look at them and snorted.

“Think they’re in for doing some freaky nerd sex thing?” he asked pleasantly. His low voice carried easily, and Len groaned internally when Ramon and Snow spun to face them with twin looks of affront. 

“Excuse you,” Cisco said, and he pressed one hand over his heart in a dramatic, insulted gesture. “I earned this detention respectably. I’m the one who rigged the PA system at last weekend’s football game to play a rickroll every time the other team scored.” 

“That’s not even slightly true,” Caitlin replied, apparently forgetting Mick’s question in her exasperation. 

“Were you there?” Cisco countered. 

“The football team plays in the fall,” Caitlin said dryly. “It’s February. And anyway, you’re here because you skipped gym every day last week. You wrote Coach Wells a note calling yourself a conscientious objector.”

“You did the same thing. You just lacked the courage of your convictions to admit it.”

“I told you, I had a doctor’s appointment.”

“Three doctor’s appointments? In one week?”

Caitlin primly ignored this, which was good, because Len had been ready to throw a pencil at them if they’d kept up the banter for one more second. 

Cisco glanced at the clock and drummed his fingers against the wood. Len cast him an annoyed glance, but he was too busy watching the clock to notice.

“You think Barry overslept again?” he asked Caitlin, checking the time against his watch.

Beside him, Mick sat forward with sudden interest. Len shot him a warning look, but Mick only grinned down the table at Cisco and Caitlin. Mick could be a little unsettling when he smiled, and Cisco and Caitlin seemed to think so, judging from their alarmed expressions. 

“The Allen kid?” Mick asked. He gave Len a conspiratorial look, and Len kicked him under the table. He wasn’t sure what they were supposed to be conspiring about, but probably nothing that would end well for him.

Mick didn’t even seem to notice the blow. He leaned forward, forearms braced against the table, and Cisco scooched back in his chair despite the six feet of space between them. 

“Think he’ll wear the skirt?” Mick asked. 

Len had been keeping a carefully neutral expression throughout the exchange, but he looked up sharply at this.

They couldn’t have been talking about the same Barry Allen he knew. Not the Barry Allen who ran by his house five times a week, and had done so for the last three years; not Barry Allen the track star, the cop’s son, the darling of the science department. Len was fairly certain that he would have noticed if that Barry Allen had worn a skirt to school. 

It wasn’t that he and Barry were friends, per se—Len wasn’t part of that painfully earnest inner circle of do-gooders—but Len figured their relationship wasn’t quite that of random classmates, either. If he had to put it in words, “acquaintances who sometimes flirted with each other outside of school” probably came the closest.

Barry had run the same loop of their town for years. They’d exchanged the occasional nod when Len was outside and Barry had passed by, but it hadn’t been until last year that they’d struck up a conversation. Barry had slowed as he ran past Len’s driveway one day when Len was working on his motorcycle, and Len had glanced up to find him all but jogging in place next to the mailbox. He’d looked better than he had any right to in that red and gold track uniform, cheeks flushed with exertion and hair dark with sweat, but that particular fact of life hadn’t really been anything new. 

“My, my,” Len had drawled, and he remembered twirling a ball socket wrench more suggestively than he’d really needed to. “If it isn’t the scarlet speedster.” 

It had been a dumb nickname, one that had sprung to Len’s tongue unprompted, but the kid had stumbled and blushed so adorably that Len had immediately resolved to use it every chance that he got.

Barry had been back two days later, this time offering him a wave and a breathless, “Hey, Len.” Len must have looked as startled as he’d felt, because Barry had slowed to a stop, expression a little self-conscious. He was a graceful runner, but Len couldn’t help but notice he looked a little gangly when not in motion. With his deer-like expression and willowy build, it was almost painfully endearing. 

“Sorry, it is Len, right?” he’d asked, a little too quickly. “I mean, I know that’s what Mick calls you. That doesn’t mean that’s what you want me to call you, though. You might prefer Leonard or-” He’d broken off with an embarrassed huff, then bit his lip and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. 

A beat of awkward silence had followed while Len had tried to separate the rush of words into cognizable sentences, then Barry had swept the damp hair back from his forehead and given Len a warm, sheepish smile. Len had dropped his wrench.

Barry had shifted his weight, smile dimming a bit in the face of Len’s continued silence, and he had looked ready to start running again when Len had finally discovered his voice. 

“‘Len’ is fine, Scarlet,” he’d said, and it had been an effort not to fiddle with the gas cap when those earnest green eyes had fixed on him again.

“It’s Barry,” he’d replied and stepped forward, one hand actually coming up as if to introduce himself, and Len had snorted.

“I know who you are, Barry,” he’d said, and he remembered smirking at Barry’s flustered expression. Barry had eventually grinned back, though, a bright smile that had left honest-to-god butterflies in Len’s stomach for almost an hour after he’d jogged away. 

Mick brought him back to the present with an oddly conciliatory thump on the back. “I forgot, Len,” he rumbled. “You weren’t here on Tuesday. I tried to get a picture for you, but the kid barely got ten feet in the front doors before that track coach hauled him into his office.” He snorted. “Creep looked like he was enjoying himself a little too much, come to think of it. Though I can’t say I blame him.” 

“Can you not talk about our friend that way?” Caitlin said sharply from the other end of the table. 

“No, he’s right,” Cisco said. He looked troubled, and gnawed on one thumbnail as he gazed distractedly at the wall clock. “Wells got pretty handsy for a minute there. I mean, Barry looked good, don’t get me wrong. My boy can pull off a skirt. But he’s eighteen, and Wells is like”—he made a gesture that somehow managed to suggest decrepitude—“Thirty-five. Forty, maybe.” 

Len scratched at his notebook and projected an air of boredom as best he could. As much as the curiosity was eating him alive, he wasn’t going to sink so low as to ask Mick about this in front of Allen’s friends.

Mick, unfortunately, had no such qualms. 

“Is it true he lost a bet?” Mick tossed down the table at Cisco and Caitlin. 

“Lost a race, actually,” Cisco replied. “He got a little too cocky at dinner, told Iris he could beat her 400 meter time. She whooped him by a full two seconds.” He smiled dreamily at the memory. “If Barry won, he got to use Iris’s Jeep for his road test. But if he lost—and oh, did he ever lose—he had to wear her old cheer uniform to school the day of the next varsity meet.”

A cheerleading uniform. Len sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Lisa had picked Tuesday to get chicken pox. It had been his fourth unexcused absence this semester, and it had landed him here, but it seemed a small price to pay for a lifetime of freedom from the haunting memories of Barry Allen in a skirt and cheer spankies. He felt guilty about this a moment later; Lisa had been miserable for days, and though he wasn’t a superstitious man, it still seemed stupid to push his luck by wishing his little sister ill. 

The sound of distant shouting made them all turn in their chairs to look at the door. Len thought he recognized Wells’s voice as the volume steadily increased, and he tried to exchange a look of trepidation with Mick. Mick only looked blandly curious, however, so Len slid his eyes over to Caitlin and Cisco instead. 

Whatever was going on, they were obviously in on it. Caitlin had one hand pressed over her mouth as she watched the entrance, and Cisco had buried his head in his hands, though he was peeking out between his fingers. Two pairs of footsteps approached rapidly, then the doors swung open with a bang, and Barry burst into the library in a righteous whirlwind of red and white polyester. 

The bottom dropped out of Len’s stomach, and all of the blood in his body seemed to head south after it. 

His first thought was that the others had left some very important details out of the story. The cheer top wasn't anything close to the varsity uniform that Len had imagined; Iris must have been in a competitive league to have gotten away with showing this much skin. The top had long sleeves of a bright blood red, but it stopped halfway down Barry’s ribcage, and Len’s eyes were drawn immediately to the smooth expanse of Barry’s stomach. 

They play of light over Barry’s muscles as he stalked forward was almost unbearably intimate to watch, and it was impossible for Len not to imagine putting his hands on him. He wondered if Barry had worn a coat, or if the exposed skin would be cool to the touch until Len got him warmed up again; wondered what it would be like to feel his lean muscles wind up tighter and tighter under his hands as he went down on him; wondered if he would curl forward or arch back when he came.

The swish of the material around his waist caught his gaze, and pulled him out of the fantasy. Len suspected the skirt hadn't been quite so short on Iris; it covered Barry’s ass with only a few inches to spare, and he realized he was watching for a glimpse of whatever might be underneath the red and white pleats with every stride Barry took.

Cisco barked a laugh, which reminded Len that his slack-jawed appreciation was probably not the most heterosexual reaction he could've gone for, or at least the most subtle one.

Barry looked toward Cisco and Caitlin, started to grin, and then noticed that they weren’t alone. He spun to face the other end of the table, and Len couldn’t keep his eyes from dropping down to watch the hem of the skirt twirl up with no small amount of hope. 

When Len managed to drag his gaze back up, he saw that Barry’s cheeks were giving the red of the uniform a run for its money. He felt like he was overdue to deliver a witty comment, but it was a little hard to think of one when his mind was occupied with wondering how far down Barry’s chest that blush went. 

He saw Mick glance between them, looking a little smug, and grabbed for the first G-rated thought that passed through his head.

“Red’s definitely your color, kid,” he drawled, and ignored the way Cisco and Caitlin’s heads turned towards him. “I’ll give you that.”

To his delight, Barry’s blush deepened. It set off his freckles nicely, Len noticed. 

“Mr. Allen!” 

The group winced as one at the boom of Wells’s voice outside the library. Barry dropped into the seat between Caitlin and Cisco in a contemptuous sprawl, slouched low in the chair with his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the door warily. Len wondered if he’d stretched his legs out in front of him or let them spread, and had to chastise himself for his overwhelming urge to drop a pencil and find out. 

As if sensing his gaze, Barry glanced sideways at Len. Len quirked an eyebrow and smiled faintly, aiming for teasing. Barry ticked his eyes back toward the door without comment, but Len saw that familiar sheepish grin pulling at the corner of his mouth as he did so. 

Wells stalked into the library, annoyance and disbelief radiating from every line of his body.

“Allen! What the h-” Wells broke off at the sight of the rest of them, and his jaw worked furiously as he sought out a school-appropriate response to Barry’s outfit. Len thought of those pretty ankles crossed under the table and sympathized. 

Barry met Wells’s gaze with steely determination, chin lifted in defiance, and Len treated himself to a closer examination of his freckles. Aside from the few brushed over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, a far more interesting group was scattered along his jaw and neck. The vee of the uniform top showed Len that they continued down at least as far as his sternum, and Len wished that he would stand again so he could learn if they reached his stomach and those narrow hips. 

He saw Wells’s gaze sweep over the rest of them, evidently looking for support, and Len didn't bother to hide his open appreciation of Barry’s form. If Wells was crowdsourcing support to get Barry to change, he certainly wasn't going to get it here. 

“Change, Mr. Allen,” Wells gritted out. “And then you can serve your detention.”

“The student handbook doesn't say anything about proper attire for serving detention,” Barry replied sharply. “In fact, it specifically says that the dress code is not to be enforced for weekend activities, unless sufficient advance notice is given to all prospective attendees.” 

He set his jaw stubbornly, and Len’d be damned if it wasn't a good look on him. He was beginning to think he was doing more harm than good, letting his gaze roam over Barry’s narrow shoulders and wiry arms with such obvious hunger. When he looked back at Wells, he found the other man watching him darkly. He smirked and let his gaze sweep back over Barry’s outfit. 

“Then you’ll serve your detention alone, where you won’t disrupt your classmates’ work.”

“Does this mean the rest of us can leave?” Mick asked.

“No,” Wells said shortly. “Mr. Allen, come with me.”

Expression mutinous, Barry stayed resolutely in his seat. Wells rolled his eyes, apparently unimpressed, and hauled Barry out of his chair by one arm. 

It was an innocent enough touch, the sort of unthinking tactility that existed between plenty of coaches and student athletes, but the sight of Wells’s hand wrapped around Barry’s bicep made something ugly and possessive flare up in Len’s chest and he was halfway out of his seat before he realized he was moving. 

Every eye on the room turned to him, and Len weighed the distastefulness of a lie against the conspicuousness of staying silent. Deciding that he was already acting about as conspicuously as one could, he dropped back into his chair without a word. 

Barry gave him a curious look, and it was one that looked a little too knowing around the edges for Len’s comfort. He could see Wells studying him with a much more calculated expression, and studiously avoided meeting his gaze in favor of Barry’s. 

“As I was saying,” Wells said, and his voice was dangerously calm, “Your behavior is disrupting the learning of your classmates.”

For about thirty minutes after they left, Len made a valiant attempt at actually writing his essay. Every couple words, however, his mind would wander back to that too-short skirt and the long legs under it, or else those dimples he’d glimpsed on Barry’s lower back, or else Barry’s soft lips, pink and swollen from the nervous drag of his teeth. 

To be fair, his lips always looked like that. It just seemed particular urgent today, all things considered.

Once he decided he wanted something, Len could hardly wait idly by while it sat unguarded in the same building as him. He put a brief plan together, spent five minutes running through the variables, then pushed his chair from the table with an air of finality.

“Where are you going?” Cisco demanded. 

“Bathroom,” Len said, and Mick snorted. Judging from the looks on Caitlin and Cisco’s faces, they were equally unconvinced. “Mick, lock the door behind me. If Wells asks where I went, tell him I’m in the vents.” 

Mick gave him a lazy salute, and Len unlocked the double doors and slipped out into the hall.

As much as he would’ve liked to crawl through the air vents, Len was sure that the ceilings of this school were an asbestos lawsuit waiting to happen. In any case, he had heard Wells and Barry’s footsteps headed east, and he suspected Wells had stuck Barry somewhere in his own hallway. He headed in that direction, taking care to stay out of sight of the sporadic security cameras over the emergency exits. The science wing, when he got there, was deserted, and Len hesitated as he passed a familiar group of lockers. 

There weren’t many lockers in the school that Len hadn’t broken into at one time or another, but he’d steered clear of these four. It wasn’t out of any particular qualm about poking through Barry’s things; it was a public school, after all, so no one had any serious illusions about their privacy on school grounds. The issue was that too many people saw their group clustered there throughout the day, and someone was bound to have noticed that Len was out of place if he’d gotten one open during school hours.

There was no one around now, though, and Len discovered that Barry had rigged his combination with half of a broken pencil. Len snorted, entirely unsurprised by Barry’s misplaced trust in their classmates. He jimmied the pencil free and pocketed it; there were other thieves in the school, and Len didn’t trust them to stay away from Barry and his friends the way he and Mick did. 

Inside, Barry’s locker was a disaster zone. For starters, there were empty granola bar wrappers trapped between the tattered sci-fi novels that easily outnumbered Barry’s textbooks by a factor of three. There were also two unmatched sneakers shoved onto the top shelf alongside a half-empty jar of peanut butter, and the locker’s single coat hook was buried under what looked to be at least four different maroon hoodies. 

The door, though, was a bright and painstakingly maintained collage of keepsakes: photographs of Barry and his friends in every possible combination; ticket stubs from movies and concerts dating back six years; receipts from the local mini golf course; scraps of notebook paper crammed with overlapping clusters of different handwriting. The last were passed notes, Len supposed, and he was impressed that some of them looked like they’d been passed back and forth a dozen times before making it onto this little wall of fame. 

A gym bag on the bottom shelf caught Len’s eye. Something about it looked guilty, though he couldn’t quite pin down why. The way it was tucked so far back into the corner, maybe, or the lack of high school detritus surrounding it. Len’s first thought was drugs, but he knew that Barry was too smart to get involved in that shit with his kind of grades and athletic record. Something else, then. 

He didn’t hesitate before hooking his boot through the bag’s strap and pulling it out onto the ground. It wasn’t nearly as heavy as he’d expected, and he stooped to unzip it, curiosity piqued. 

At first glance, he thought it was empty. The main compartment was, at any rate, and it wasn’t until Len dug his hand into the shallow front pocket that he discovered its contents. 

Scarlet indeed, he thought with a wicked grin, holding the lingerie aloft. He turned the scrap of silk and lace over in his fingers, relieved that they appeared to be clean. 

Of all the things he’d expected to find in Barry’s locker, expensive panties certainly hadn’t been one of them. He supposed, though the thought made him a bit uncomfortable, that they might have belonged to Iris. He didn’t have any adult siblings himself, but it seemed reasonable that laundry mix-ups occurred on a fairly regular basis. These looked awfully skimpy, though, and a little small for Iris’s curves; that, and the way they’d been tucked into the bottom of what was definitely Barry’s track bag, suggested something other than an innocent mistake. No, unless Barry’s secret was a particularly dirty one, Len didn’t think that they were hers.

Odds were that the kid had a secret girlfriend, then. Len didn’t know why he was surprised; the senior class was an unintelligible tangle of drama on a good day, and Len had stumbled across more than one unlikely couple that had then begged him not to tell anyone what he’d seen. He snorted; as if he cared enough about who was fucking whom in this school to gossip about it. And who did they think he’d tell, Mick? 

Though if any of those couples had involved Barry, Len supposed he might have told Mick. Mick was an extension of himself; this was a fact of life, and had been for years. 

They’d met freshman year, when a senior had tried to start shit with Len over something stupid—locker assignments, maybe. Len couldn’t remember the reason now, but he’d been quicker to anger then and he’d fallen for the bait immediately. The senior had had six inches and 50 pounds on him, and Len had been well on his way to getting his ass handed to him when Mick had appeared like an avenging angel, pulled the senior off of Len with an effortless chokehold, and dropped him into a nearby garbage can. 

Len hadn’t said thank you, Mick hadn’t asked him to, and they’d been friends ever since. There were no secrets between them, mostly because Mick saw no point in lying, and Len felt obligated to meet honesty with honesty. It was for that reason that when Len had mentioned “that Allen kid” for about the tenth time and Mick had asked, “What, you want to fuck him or something?”, Len hadn’t responded with a reflexive denial. Instead, he’d considered the question for a few minutes while Mick sat patiently beside him, playing with a lighter. When Len had finally said, “I think so, yeah,” Mick had only nodded once and flicked the lighter open again. And that had been that. 

Mick never said a word about Barry being another boy—Len wasn’t sure that it had occurred to him that there might be anything to say—but he had mortified Len more than a few times with his attempts at friendliness with Barry. 

Len wanted Barry, and Mick happily deferred to Len’s opinion on such matters. Unfortunately for both Len and Barry, Mick’s idea of being supportive didn’t translate very well to normal human behavior. Though Len had tried to dissuade him, Mick insisted on clapping Barry on the shoulder whenever they passed him in the hall, often with enough force to send the books spilling out of Barry’s arms and onto the ground. Mick would then ask, “All right, Allen?” in his deep boom, and make unblinking eye contact while he (and everyone else in the hallway) waited for Barry to come up with some kind of answer in the affirmative. 

The faint sound of footsteps snapped Len out of his reverie. After a brief hesitation, he tucked the panties back into the gym bag and stuffed it back onto the bottom shelf. The footsteps sounded like they were coming from the art wing to the east, so he ducked further down the science hall and began trying the locks on the classroom doors.

He could pick one if he really needed to, but it would’ve taken him time he wasn’t sure he had. There was also the risk that the room was already occupied, and locked for good reason, and he didn’t need the trauma of learning what his teachers got up to after hours, or the extra detention that was sure to come from being caught with a lock-picking kit. 

The footsteps drew closer. Len had just resigned himself to breaking into the door he tried, consequences be damned, when he noticed an irregular patch of light, some twenty feet down the hall. It was the light from an open door, he realized, and he hurried toward it. If anyone was inside, he’d give them a quick excuse about looking for Principal Singh, and hope they didn’t haul him back into the hall before whoever it was completed their rounds. 

The door wasn’t a classroom after all, he realized as he approached, but one of the small group study rooms that had been part of the school’s latest efforts at “promoting collaborative learning.” He ducked inside and eased the door shut behind him. He pressed his ear against the door and listened hard for a few moments. When he ascertained that the footsteps weren’t moving down this hall, he relaxed and reached for the doorknob.

“What are you doing?”

Len spun in surprise. Barry was leaning against the wall to his left, fairly tucked into the shadows in a way that Len would have noticed if he’d bothered to check his corners when he’d entered the room. He was frankly surprised that he hadn’t noticed anyway; even out of his line of sight, he felt like it should not have been possible for someone to walk into a room with Barry Allen in a cheer uniform and not notice. 

He gave himself three seconds to admire the view, gaze moving indecisively between the lean muscles of his legs, crossed casually at the ankle, and the scattering of freckles across the tan planes of his stomach. 

Barry wrapped his arms around his exposed midriff, and the defensive gesture was just self-conscious enough that Len let his gaze slip into something a little more openly appreciative than his default judgmental expression.

“I was looking for you, of course,” Len said. The small room was dominated by a large square table, and Len dropped into one of the chairs. Barry stayed where he was for a moment, eyeing Len warily, then uncrossed his arms and pushed off the wall. 

Len didn’t bother to check the open way he watched Barry move as he paced toward the table and took the seat across from Len; it wasn’t like Barry didn’t know what he looked like, after all. The table was low enough, or Barry tall enough, or a fortuitous combination of both, that Len could still see a stripe of skin below the hem of his shirt.

“Wells said the door was supposed to stay open.”

“Hm.” Len scratched his thumbnail over a bit of graffiti carved into the table for a few seconds, then cut his gaze back to Barry. He smirked when Barry gave a startled little blink; he’d learned early to flash his blue eyes to great effect, and was pleased to see that Barry wasn’t immune. “Sounds like he’s worried someone might get the wrong idea, dragging a nice boy like you into a secluded little spot like this. Especially a nice boy like you, all dressed up like that.”

Barry colored, as Len had hoped he would. 

“Wells is just… intense,” Barry said, and he gave a tight little shrug. “He pushes me to be better, to be faster, but sometimes, I don't know. It almost feels like he’s got it out for me.” 

“Seems more like he’s got it up for you.” 

Barry sputtered, and Len rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t be coy, Barry, it’s not a good look on you,” Len drawled. This was perhaps the most outright lie he’d ever told in his life; coy looked hot as shit on Barry. The way he ducked his head so that his thick hair spilled down over his eyes, the pretty blush that was creeping up his neck, the way he caught that plush lower lip in his teeth. It was enough to draw Len’s attention from Barry’s toned shoulders, which was saying something. 

“Did you wear this for him?” Len asked. He’d meant it to be a sneer, but the question came out low and dirty, and both of them paused at his tone.

“No,” Barry said, but the tips of his ears had gone pink. 

“His loss,” Len said. He tilted his head to get a better view of the skirt under the table, and Barry crossed his legs defensively. The movement pulled the skirt’s hem up so that it barely covered the top of his thighs, and Len’s mouth watered at the smooth expanse of skin revealed to him. 

“All this one-on-one time with the handsome coach. What would your girlfriend think?”

He was fishing now, and he suspected they both knew it. Still, Barry looked at him with a puzzled expression.

“My girlfriend?”

“Or whatever you want to call her,” Len said. It was an effort to keep his tone flippant. “Let me guess: she doesn’t like labels.”

He watched the muscle jump in Barry’s jaw as he ground his teeth together.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he snapped. “Or—or anything like that. I’m not dating anyone.”

Len quirked an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure why he’d lie, especially when the truth might let him save a little face after what he’d just said about Wells. He might’ve been ashamed of the girl, but he didn’t seem the type. Anyway, those panties Len had seen had looked expensive—if anyone was embarrassed about this relationship, it was probably the girl. 

The thought didn’t sit well with Len; he’d never chased the rich girls, for obvious reasons, but he could imagine well the kind of scorn his advances would’ve been met with if he had. The Wests weren’t poor by any means, not like his family was, but Len knew that the story of Henry Allen still made the rounds every fall with the new class of freshmen. Len understood that kind of stigma, and couldn’t help but feel a little indignant on Barry’s behalf; the kid was good-looking, he was kind, and he didn’t deserve to get strung along by some debutante looking for a little excitement on the wrong side of the tracks. 

The expression on Barry’s face told him that a bit of pity had crept into his gaze, and Len pushed it away swiftly. He considered his next question carefully, decided it would be better if he didn’t ask it, then looked at Barry’s wide green eyes and discarded that decision entirely. In for a penny...

“Who do the panties belong to, then?”

Barry blanched. Len would have pitied him his terrible poker face if the level of alarm weren’t so interestingly disproportionate to his question. 

“What?” Barry managed, and Len raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. 

“Answering a question with a question, Barry? Surely Detective West taught his kids to lie better than that.”

He’d been aiming to mollify; while the whole town knew that Joe West had raised Barry like his own son, Len had noticed that Barry’s smile still got a bit watery every time Iris called him her brother. 

The comment didn’t even seem to register with Barry, however, who still looked fairly sick with panic. Len decided to throw him a bone, if only because this conversation wasn’t nearly as fun as he’d anticipated. 

“The pair in your locker,” he said. That Barry looked relieved, rather than demanding to know why Len had been in his locker, was perhaps one of the most interesting things Len had seen all week. “What did you think I was talking about, the ones on your ass?”

He’d meant it sarcastically, and so was utterly unprepared when Barry’s eyes widened a fraction, and the guilty pink tinge returned to his cheeks. 

The realization hit Len like a punch to the solar plexus.

“You—“ he started, then stopped, unsure if words existed to do justice to this situation. The room was silent except for the rush of blood in his ears and the too-loud ticking of the clock, and Barry ducked his head away from Len’s astonished expression. He fidgeted with the notebook in front of him, picking nervously at the perforated shreds of paper caught in the loops of its spiral binding as Len stared at him in stunned silence.

“Do you touch yourself in them?”

It was a wildly inappropriate question, not to mention against a half-dozen rules of student conduct, and Len was entirely prepared to get punched in the face for asking. But Barry only glanced up with a nervous expression, then dropped his gaze again, a fierce blush climbing the back of his neck. It was all the answer Len needed. 

“Shit,” he breathed. Barry looked back at him, expression embarrassed and apprehensive. 

Len could picture it all too well: Barry, just home from track practice maybe, locking his door and sliding the silk panties out from the back of his sock drawer. He'd shower first, Len amended. He'd seen how sweaty the track kids got, and Barry wouldn't want to get his nice things dirty. Len wondered if he would start getting hard in the shower, thinking about the lingerie he was going to put on when he got out. And when he was done, he'd slide under the sheets and pull the silk up over his damp thighs, maybe moaning a little at the cool, slippery feel of it against his flushed cock. 

No sheets, Len decided; Barry would want to look at himself, would want to see his cock straining at the front of those panties, precum dampening the waistband. He'd imagine another man looking at him, imagine them telling him how good he looked, how pretty, spread out in front of them like that. He'd ghost his fingers over the thick outline of his cock, pretending they were the other man’s, maybe even letting slip a name as he gasped and pressed his hips up into his palm. 

“Who do you think about?” Len asked, and the low urgency of his voice took them both aback. Barry looked caught, and he couldn't help but smirk. “Is it Wells?”

And that—god, that shouldn't have been as hot as it was. He was helpless to the mental image of Barry sliding his hands up his own shaking thighs, tracing the waistband of his panties and imagining it was Wells’s fingers teasing him instead. 

Wells was a jackass, but Len couldn't stop picturing it. He would pin Barry’s narrow hips down and drag his lips over the damp silk, feather-light until Barry was writhing under his hands, begging for more. Or maybe—Len felt a dizzying spark of arousal and swallowed hard—maybe he'd want to fuck Barry in those panties. He'd pull the crotch to one side and open Barry up for him, fast and hard, and Barry would urge him on, pressing his hips back against his fingers and letting out the sweetest little moans—

Barry hit him in the chest, hard, and Len was pulled out of the fantasy. He realized his mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut with an audible click. Barry still had his head ducked, though, so he couldn't have noticed the hunger that Len was sure was written all over his face. 

“I don't think about Wells,” Barry hissed, indignant. Len was irrationally disappointed for a second, but then Barry looked up at him through his long lashes, expression miserable and not a little guilty, and all of the air went out of Len’s lungs. 

“You-” he started, but once again found himself unable to phrase the question. 

Barry averted his eyes and nodded once. 

“Me?” Len clarified, disbelieving. There was no way; he knew he was good-looking, sure, but Barry could have his pick of anyone at their school. Hell, anyone in Central City; he couldn't have had any shortage of offers from his long runs through town.

Barry laughed, and Len’s heart skipped at the wry smile he gave him. 

“Why do you think I’ve been running by your house for three years?” he asked, and rubbed an embarrassed hand over the pretty blush still staining the back of his neck. 

“Three years?” Len repeated, blindsided. Barry’s smile faltered, and even through his surprise, Len couldn't let himself be the cause behind that nervous expression. He leaned over the table and caught Barry’s wrists in a tight grip. Barry’s eyes widened, but he made no move to pull away. 

“You're telling me that for the last three years, you've been flashing those pretty legs all over my neighborhood, what, just hoping I'd take a hint?” 

Barry laughed breathlessly. “Most of the time, I was just hoping to catch a glimpse of you working on your motorcycle,” he admitted. 

Len blinked at him as his brain scrambled to adjust to the crazy alternate universe he'd just been dropped into. Barry Allen wore red lace panties and thought he looked hot covered in WD-40 and motor oil. Barry Allen got off to wearing red lace panties and thinking about how hot he looked covered in WD-40 and motor oil. He could not be this lucky. 

“I cannot be this lucky,” he breathed. Barry’s smile grew coy, which did nothing to help the uncomfortable tightness in Len’s jeans.

They didn’t hear the footsteps until they stopped right outside the door. 

“It’s Wells,” Barry hissed, expression panicked. Len didn’t think there was much Wells could do to them just for being in the same room, but there was something off-putting about the man that made Len join Barry in his alarm. He scanned the room for an exit, and Barry jumping out of his seat to hold the door knob shut. His skirt flounced as he did so, and Len paused to watch its movement with great interest.

Barry snapped his fingers in front of Len’s face. He looked a charming mixture of embarrassed and incredulous, and Len wanted badly to kiss him for it. 

There was no time, though, and no decent place to hide. Lacking other options, he started to scramble under the table. Barry made a sound like he wanted to protest, but the doorknob rattled, and he doubled down on his grip. Len would’ve liked to stay and appreciate the way Barry’s lean muscles shifted under the thin red sleeves of the cheer top, but Wells was demanding to know why the door was shut, and he needed to get himself hidden.

“Uh, I’m sorry Dr. Wells, I think a, uh, screw fell out,” Barry said, and winced at the bad lie.

“A screw?” Wells asked. Barry took a deep breath, then let go of the door and flung himself back into his chair. 

Barry nearly stepped on one of Len’s hands in his haste, but that wasn’t the reason that Len made a strangled noise of shock. Barry coughed hastily to cover the sound, and he slammed his heel into Len’s side as Wells’s footsteps entered the small room. Len caught Barry’s ankle before he could pull away, though his eyes stayed helplessly fixed on sliver of red silk peeking out from underneath Barry’s skirt. 

“Mr. Allen. I left you alone here because I thought I could trust you,” Wells said, and Len had to force down the dark prickle of possessiveness he felt at Wells’s over-familiar tone.

Barry hadn’t pulled his foot away. Len hesitated, then began tracing his thumb in small, slow circles over Barry’s skin. He took care let to calluses drag over the delicate ridge of his anklebone, and thrilled silently when Barry’s calf flexed under his fingers. Len couldn’t help but grin, knowing that his touch was making Barry’s toes curl in his sneakers. 

He was distantly aware that Wells was still talking as he slid his hand up to Barry’s leg. He’d hoped his touch would come across more confident than he felt, but he paused at his knee, uncomprehending. He dropped his hand a few inches and brushed his fingertips up Barry’s shin again, slower this time. Barry shivered underneath him, and Len’s mouth went dry as he skimmed his fingers over that smooth skin. When he’d noticed Barry’s legs earlier, he’d thought that Barry had lighter body hair than the dark locks growing on his head, but now he realized his mistake. It wasn’t that Barry had light hair on his legs; he'd shaved it off. 

Some desperate part of his brain acknowledged that it might be a track thing. He'd heard of swimmers shaving their legs before big races to reduce drag, and it made sense that runners would do it too. But he really, desperately hoped it wasn't anything as utilitarian as that, and he couldn’t resist the urge to lean in and lick a stripe up the inside of Barry’s lean calf. 

Barry jerked in surprise, yanking his ankle free from Len’s grip, and his cough that time was late and unconvincing. He settled back in the chair, muttering an excuse to Wells, and Len hung back and watched as he bounced his leg nervously for a few moments. As Wells droned on about athletic responsibility and school pride, however, Barry slowly slid his feet forward, then dropped his knees open. 

It was all but a written invitation. Len sucked in a breath and ground the heel of his hand against his groin, hoping to take the edge off his growing arousal. It didn't work, but Len suspected not even a bucket of ice water could help against the sight in front of him. 

He slid a tentative hand up Barry’s thigh, and nearly groaned at the smooth skin he found there. Barry dropped his knees open further and tipped his hips forward, a little hitch that conveyed impatience so clearly that Len could've cried. He had a full view of the panties now; the thin red silk did little to conceal Barry’s obvious arousal, and Len himself was getting painfully hard just thinking about what Barry might let him do with Wells standing right there. 

He shuffled forward and made the conscious effort to tune out what Wells was saying now, something about fairness and other students or something similarly dull. He settled his hands on Barry’s legs again and barely swallowed back a pleased noise when Barry hooked his ankles behind Len’s back to hold him there, as if he seriously thought Len might want to be anywhere other than in between his freckled thighs. 

He leaned in, hardly daring to breathe, and stopped with his lips an inch away from the taut red fabric. The heady scent of Barry’s arousal nearly drove him forward, but he held back by a thread. He licked his lips and then, as quietly as he could manage, exhaled a hot breath over the straining crotch of Barry’s panties. 

Barry’s reaction was immediate. His ankles tightened against Len’s back, urging him forward sharply, and Len barely managed to catch himself with a hand on the edge of Barry’s chair. Barry slid a hand off the table to slide over Len’s scalp, fingers scrabbling over his shorn hair in search of purchase. 

Len took a steadying breath and waited for a pause in Wells’s lecture. Barry tugged him forward a couple times with his crossed ankles, but Len held firm, only sweeping the thumb of the hand still on Barry’s leg in teasing arcs along his upper thigh. Wells stopped, and his silence indicated that he expecting a “yes, sir,” from Barry. Len waited until Barry breathed out the first word before he rocked forward, and he let his stubble scrape across Barry’s inner thigh before dragging the flat of his tongue over the front of the red panties. 

Barry’s voice broke on the “sir,” exactly as Len had hoped. His fingernails dragged over Len’s scalp, just this side of painful, and Len had to swallow an approving noise. He compromised by guiding Barry’s hand to the back of his neck, and Barry raked his blunt nails over the area obligingly.

“I’m not sure I quite got that, Mr. Allen,” Wells said darkly. Barry inhaled, and Len laved his tongue over the silk again. Barry jolted under his hands, and it took a truly Herculean effort on Len's part not to groan against his inner thigh. 

“I said, yes sir,” Barry said, voice high and strained. Len let a hot breath huff over Barry’s groin again and relished the way Barry’s thighs tightened around his ears. 

Apparently satisfied, Wells launched into his lecture again. Len took the opportunity to trace the fingers of one hand along the outline of Barry’s cock in the panties. The lace at the sides was beginning to strain, and he paused to admire the growing wet spot at the front of the scrap of silk. He teased one finger under the lace trim and got a glimpse of flushed skin beneath. He wrapped his lips over the head of Barry’s cock through the fabric and sucked; Barry gasped and bucked underneath him, and it was only his right hand on Barry’s hip that kept him from giving them both away on the spot. 

“Sorry,” Barry wheezed into the resulting silence. “Got a chill.” 

Wells was quiet for a long enough time that Len began to wonder, not overly alarmed, if they were about to be caught. It would be one of the better ways to get expelled, he thought idly. Getting caught between a pretty boy’s thighs, pulling aside a cherry red scrap of lace and silk to get his mouth on that flushed and leaking cock, Barry leaving vivid red scratch marks on the back of his neck... He could think of worse ways to go.

“In the future, Mr. Allen, I hope you’ll remember that you have a team that’s counting on you,” Wells said at length, and Len felt his nerves light up when he realized it was the end of his speech. He was done talking; he was going to leave; he was going to leave and Len was going to be alone with Barry, and Barry was hard and desperate under his hands, and that was with Wells standing not three feet away—

The door clicked shut, and Barry shoved back his chair so hard that Len wouldn’t have been surprised if its legs left gouges in the floor.

“Len,” Barry gasped, low and broken and urgent, and it was all the encouragement Len needed to lunge forward and slide his hands up the sides of Barry’s skirt. He found the waistband of the red panties and slid them down, nestling them under Barry’s tight balls and straining cock. Barry groaned, and Len couldn't hold back any longer. He grasped Barry's cock in one hand and licked a wide stripe up its underside, just to feel Barry’s heels dig helplessly into his sides. 

Barry groaned his name again, and Len slid his mouth over the head of his cock. He wrapped his fingers around the base, and his own cock twitched painfully at the way Barry gasped and writhed beneath him. 

“Please, Len, fuck, oh my god,” Barry moaned, hips thrusting up ineffectively as Len pulled back with an obscene pop. Len rested his forehead against Barry’s hip and took a steadying breath, eyes screwed shut. He ground the heel of one hand against his cock through his jeans, then tucked Barry back into his panties and pressed a kiss against the front of the damp silk. 

“Take off your shirt,” he said, exhaling sharply. He slid his hands up Barry’s thighs again, more to anchor himself than anything else. Barry hesitated above him, and Len leaned up to give the crop top an impatient tug. Barry caught his hand, and Len was amazed when he turned an even deeper shade of crimson. 

After a brief hesitation, Barry reached his arms behind his head and fumbled with the zipper. Len slid his hands up Barry’s torso, appreciative of the sinuous stretch of his muscles beneath his palms. Barry twisted, as if ticklish, and Len was taken by the desire to lick a stripe up that lean stomach and find out for sure. He was about to give in to the temptation when his fingers slid under the hem of Barry’s top and he encountered an unexpected layer beneath it. Barry went still under his hands as he traced his fingers along the edge of the material, perplexed. He didn’t know much about cheerleading outfits, but he was pretty sure that they didn’t normally come with a lace underlayer. Unless—

It seemed to take Barry an eternity to pull the zipper down. Len sat frozen, scarcely able to breathe, until he heard the soft snikt of the slider coming free from the bottom stop. The material went slack, and Len rocked up to pull it down his arms. Barry caught him before he could do so, and pressed him back with a firm hand against his shoulder. Len sat back on his heels as directed and let his hands drop to Barry’s knees and squeezed them encouragingly. Barry exhaled a small laugh, gave him one more shy glance, and slid the shirt off over his arms. 

Knowing the bra was going to be there did nothing to prepare Len for the actual sight of it. It was little more than two triangles of red—of course it was red—lace, stark against Barry’s skin. A bralette, Len’s brain supplied, though he discarded the knowledge immediately. It didn’t matter what it was called; he was going to rip it off with his teeth. 

He surged upwards, half climbing into Barry’s lap in his haste to get his mouth on the lingerie. The position was awkward, and only let Len have one hand on Barry’s body, which, given what he was wearing, was unforgivable. He hooked his hands under Barry’s arms and hauled him up, and Barry yelped. He spun them, Barry clinging to his shoulders, then dropped back into the chair. He curled his hands over Barry’s waist and yanked him forward, sending him sprawling into his lap. 

He pressed his lips to Barry’s unthinkingly, and it was only when Barry made a surprised noise against his mouth that Len realized he may have overstepped. There was a difference between letting a guy suck your cock and kissing him, he knew. And while he hadn’t pegged Barry as the type to make that distinction, he also hadn’t asked. 

He pulled back to apologize, but Barry cupped one hand around back of his neck and pulled him sharply back in. It was his turn to let slip a soft surprised sound, something that might've been an “oh” if Barry’s lips hadn't been covering his own. Barry tipped his head and caught Len’s lower lip between his, a little nervous but enthusiastic nonetheless. Len placed his fingers briefly along Barry’s jaw, but the thick dark hair a few inches away quickly proved too tempting, and he let his fingers rake through the hair at the base of Barry’s neck. 

It was as deliciously soft as he'd expected. Even more lovely, though, was the way Barry shivered underneath him when he curled his fingers around the strands in a loose grip and opened his mouth in a small gasp against Len’s lips. 

Len took the opportunity to angle closer, and he traced his tongue over the seam of Barry’s lips. After a brief pause, Barry parted them further. His hesitation suggested inexperience, and Len was careful to press close with just the barest hint of tongue, letting Barry get used to the sensation as he dragged it teasingly over the corners of his lips and swept it along the edges of his teeth. 

He could feel Barry grow more daring with each passing second. His tongue brushed Len’s with a tentative sweep, and Len answered him with a soft moan. Emboldened, Barry tightened his grip on Len’s nape and sucked on his tongue, gently at first but more confidently when Len groaned again against his mouth. 

With the hand not tangled in Barry’s hair, Len dragged a palm up Barry’s warm chest and thrilled at the jackrabbit beat of Barry’s heart under his hand. He could hear his own pulse racing in his ears, the only sound in the room apart from their rapid breathing and the soft wet noise as their lips met, broke apart, and came together again. 

He traced his fingers over the lace edging at the bottom of Barry’s bra, and Barry shifted in his lap; not closer, Len realized, but shifting his hips away from Len’s. An absurd attempt at modesty, Len thought dizzily; he'd had his tongue on Barry’s cock a few minutes before, he knew how hard he was. It wasn't like he was any better off, even trapped uncomfortably under the layers of cotton and denim as he was. 

Barry’s hand slipped from Len’s neck to the collar of his shirt, and he gave it an impatient tug. 

“Off,” Barry murmured against his jaw, and he skirted his other hand under the bottom hem. The muscles of Len’s stomach jumped under Barry’s curious touch, but he managed a chuckle and leaned back. He pulled Barry’s hair a bit harder than he'd meant to in his haste to free his hand to remove his shirt. Barry’s eyes fluttered shut and his lips parted, and he exhaled a soft stricken noise, and Len pulled him back in helplessly to chase the heat of that sound between his lips. 

He caught Barry’s lower lip and tugged, and Barry shivered when he added a faint scrape of teeth. Barry’s hands were back on his hem again soon though, pulling it up insistently this time, even as he refused to break away from Len’s mouth long enough to let him pull it up over his head. Len tried twice to pull away, but Barry chased his lips both times and brought their mouths together again. The third time, Len had to play dirty, and when Barry tried to press forward to continue the kiss, he tightened his hand in his hair and held him back. 

Barry’s gaze was dark and hungry when Len finally managed to lean back, but he sat still when Len dropped his hands to the edge of his shirt. 

“I don’t have anything under it as pretty as what you’ve got on,” he said with a smirk, but Barry flashed his own dangerous smile back and slid his palm up Len’s stomach.

“That remains to be seen,” he said. Len felt a pleased blush rise on the back of his neck, and hurried to strip out of his shirt before Barry could notice. 

He'd barely gotten it over his head when Barry’s hands landed on his chest. He traced his fingers over one collarbone and dragged his palm over one of Len’s nipples, and Len couldn't suppress a shudder. He dropped his hands back Barry’s hips and pulled him flush against his chest, wanting to feel Barry’s warm skin against his own, not to mention the soft scratch of that lace against his chest. 

The new position brought Barry more fully into his lap, and his mouth went dry when he felt Barry’s hard length through the thick denim of his jeans. Barry seemed to agree, given the way he rocked forward against Len and let out a surprised, stuttering moan. His hand tightened over Len’s shoulder to hold him in place as he arched against him, and Len slid an encouraging hand down Barry’s sweat-slick back, letting his hand rest against his skin where it met the waistband of his skirt. Barry canted his hips forward again, and Len felt a dizzying spike of arousal when he realized he was grinding against the seam of his jeans. 

“Fuck, Len,” Barry groaned, and he dropped his head against Len’s shoulder as he dragged his hips over the thick ridge of denim again. 

“Christ, Barry,” Len breathed, and he realized he was getting embarrassingly close to coming just from this. He slid a hand up the back of Barry’s skirt and groaned at the taut silk he found there, and wondered how it would feel sliding over his bare cock.

“Barry,” he began, voice gone slightly desperate. 

“Len,” Barry moaned against his neck, as if in agreement. A shiver ran down Len’s spine, and he knew he’d be replaying that sound in his head every night for a very long time. Then Barry rocked forward again, and Len had to bite back a whine. 

“Barry, wait,” he said. Barry brought his head up, and when he blinked at Len, dark hair debauched and swollen lips parted in a moue of confusion, Len almost dragged him back in. 

“I just, I need to get out of these jeans,” Len said, a little tersely.

“They feel good,” Barry breathed. He rocked forward again, and Len’s cock twitched against his ass. Barry grinned, a little hazy, and ground back against him.

“Fuck, don’t-” Len barked, and he nearly tipped Barry out of his lap in his rush to press him away. Barry was sitting there like he had no idea what he was doing to him, rocking in his lap half-naked, bare thighs wrapped around Len’s waist and that skirt, that fucking cheer skirt that was probably the only thing keeping Len from coming in his pants at the sight of Barry grinding against him in those little silk panties. 

“Barry, I’m going to—“ He exhaled sharply and glanced away. “Just, give me a second, okay?” 

Barry looked concerned for a moment, but a dawning look of understanding began to spread across his features, and Len clenched his jaw, embarrassed. 

“You’re close,” Barry said and his tone was colored with more than a hint of wonder. Len scowled and kept his eyes resolutely on a shelf of books over Barry’s shoulder.

“Yeah, a gorgeous guy is riding my thigh in a fucking cheer shirt and lace panties and I’m getting a little worked up, sue me,” Len snapped. 

“A little?” Barry asked. He grinned breathlessly and ground down again.

Len caught him around the waist and lifted him with a growl. Barry looped his arms around Len’s neck with a breathless laugh, and Len hitched Barry’s legs tighter around his waist and pulled them into a standing position just long enough to dump Barry on his back onto the table. He untangled himself from Barry’s limbs, ignoring his small noise of displeasure, and retreated far enough to shuck off his belt and shoes. 

He pulled Barry’s shoes and socks off as well since he had them in front of him, and because didn’t particularly want Barry’s sneakers digging into his bare back once he got back on top of him. His hands were shaking badly enough that he missed the button of the front of his jeans the first two times. He managed it on the third try and shoved the jeans down his hips with a muttered curse. He was just shimmying out of his boxers when he realized he wasn’t putting on much of a show, and he glanced back up at Barry, a little embarrassed. 

The sight that greeted him nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. Barry was propped up on one elbow, watching him with open hunger, and his lips were faintly parted as his gaze roamed over Len’s body. His skirt was rucked up around his waist, and he had slipped one hand inside the panties to work himself slowly as he watched Len undress. When he caught Len looking, he smiled, an anticipatory little grin that made Len’s knees as weak as that hand did. 

The pace of his hand picked up, and Len’s gaze was drawn helplessly back down. The panties were so wet they were nearly translucent, and Len was mesmerized by the shadowy movement of Barry’s pale knuckles against the back of the silk. 

Barry spread his legs invitingly, and Len choked back a groan as the movement pulled the panties tighter across his hips.

“Fuck,” Len said, and he slid a hand up Barry’s thigh. Barry tipped the knee open accommodatingly, and that time, Len did groan. “You’re a fucking wet dream, you know that?” 

“Seems a little redundant,” Barry said, and he gave Len a small, self-conscious grin. Len’s confusion must have been evident, because he clarified, “A fucking wet dream, I mean. It seems—“

Len growled and surged forward before Barry could finish the sentence. He caught Barry by the hips and slid him further back on the table, knocking his elbow out from under him and sending a wave of papers tumbling to the ground. He climbed onto the table, ignoring its creak of protest, and Barry met his gaze, wide-eyed, as he prowled up his body. 

“Uh, for the record,” Barry said, then stopped to lick his lips nervously. “That was really, I’m really, um.” Len looked at him expectantly, and Barry dropped his eyes away before he said, “You, uh, just moving me where you want me. I think I’m into that, a little.” 

Len closed his eyes and silently promised to send Harrison Wells a fruit basket when they got out of here. 

He only allowed himself a moment, because he finally had that bra where he could get a good look at it, and he fully intended to give it all the attention it deserved. 

“You have no idea,” he said, sliding a palm over one triangle of lace, “All the things I want to do to you.” 

Barry shivered underneath him, and Len was gratified to feel that his nipples were already hard under his hand. He leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue over the lace, and Barry dropped his head back with a tight noise of pleasure. 

“Tell me, then,” he said. He slid his hands up Len’s arms, caught him by the shoulders, and urged him forward. Len smirked and swiped his tongue over Barry’s nipple again. He shifted his weight onto one arm so he could skim the other hand down Barry’s stomach, fingers tripping over the bunched material of his skirt before sliding down to cup him through the panties. Barry bucked against him, and Len let him thrust against his hand just once before drawing it back up his chest. Barry made a distressed noise and let go of one of Len’s shoulders to reach for his hand, but Len batted him away.

“I’m not going to tell you if you’re not going to listen,” he said. Barry looked at him like he’d already forgotten the question, eyes dark and wild. Len slid his hand through the sheen of sweat gathering on Barry’s chest and slipped his fingers under the bottom edge of the bra. He took a moment to commit to memory the way the dainty lace stretched over his hand, and the way Barry squirmed when he brushed the dry pad of his thumb over his nipple. 

He wanted his mouth on Barry five minutes ago, he realized, skin to skin, and he tugged the thin fabric up impatiently to get at his chest properly. The lace gave way under his hands, splitting at the fragile seam where the two triangles met, and Barry looked down, affronted. Len thought he should’ve felt guilty, but he was too busy pressing his mouth to the newly-revealed skin to feel anything but turned on. 

“That was my favorite,” Barry complained, though his breath hitched as Len dragged his tongue over one pebbled nipple.

“I’ll buy you another one,” he growled. 

That, at least, seemed to shut Barry up. When Len glanced up, Barry was fairly gaping at him, and he belatedly recognized how forward that had been. He leaned up and pressed a kiss against Barry’s parted lips, hoping to blow past the comment, though his mind was already buried under a flurry of mental images involving Barry, a dressing room, and red lingerie. 

Barry shifted up on an arm to meet his lips again. The kiss turned dirty quickly, and Barry twisted underneath him until he managed to get his legs bracketed around Len again. He pulled back from the kiss and dropped onto his elbows, forcing Len to drape himself more fully over his body to reach his lips. 

Len obliged, and bit back a groan when his stomach brushed over the damp silk of Barry’s panties. He let his head drop against Barry’s shoulder and tried to take a steadying breath, but Barry dragged an impatient hand up his side, then wrapped one leg over Len’s hip and urged him forward.

“I want to fuck you into a mattress,” Len growled, face still pressed to Barry’s chest, and he felt as much as heard Barry’s breath catch. Len took the opportunity to suck a bruise at the spot where his neck met his shoulder, just above where one strap of his bra still hung loosely against his collar.

“What?” Barry asked faintly.

“You wanted to know how I want you,” Len said. He trailed his lips up Barry’s neck, and caught the bottom of his ear gently between his teeth for a moment. “I want you in your bed, where you’ve touched yourself thinking about everything I might do to you.” Barry shivered underneath him, and Len thought he felt Barry give a shaky nod. Emboldened, he continued. 

“I’d spend hours getting you ready for me.” He reached down to hook Barry’s other leg around his waist, but he barely had to touch Barry’s thigh before Barry did it himself. The movement pulled their hips flush together, and they both groaned as Len’s cock dragged over Barry’s with just that thin scrap of cloth between them.

“I’d slide my hand inside your panties and work you open so slow and so good, you'd be fucking yourself on my fingers and begging me to let you come just like that,” Len growled, and Barry was definitely nodding now. He pulled urgently at Len’s shoulders, and Len rewarded him for the bite of nails with a leisurely roll of his hips. 

“You’d be so hard, just like this.” He hitched his hips against Barry’s again, harder this time, and Barry rocked up to meet him. “I think you’d ruin your pretty little panties for me, just waiting for my cock.”

Barry made a broken noise in the back of his throat and dragged Len in for another kiss. Len slid his tongue between Barry’s lips in short, teasing thrusts, until Barry snarled against his mouth and delivered a sharp, impatient nip to his lower lip. Len pulled back with a weak chuckle.

“When I finally fucked you, though…” He propped himself up on one arm, and reached his free hand between them. He pulled at Barry’s waistband, and Barry scrambled to pull the panties down his thighs. Len brought his hand back up to lick his palm, smirking as Barry tracked the motion with wide-eyed anticipation, then reached down and wrapped his fingers around Barry’s cock. 

“Fuck, Len, fuck-” Barry gasped, throwing his head back with a painful-sounding thump, and Len lost the thread of the fantasy in the face of what was already in front of him. 

Barry fumbled between them, and Len groaned when those long, clever fingers closed around him. Barry didn't give him time to adjust, though, stroking him with sharp, desperate motions, like he could get Len to move his hand by giving him a clear enough example. 

“Shit, Scarl—Barry, I'm not going to last,” Len gasped, and Barry barked a laugh. 

“I don't want you to last,” he said with an impatient huff. “I want to watch you come.”

Len’s grip tightened reflexively and Barry arched up into his fist with a breathless noise. His hand sped on Len’s cock, and Len let his head fall against Barry’s shoulder again as he gave himself over to the sensation. He matched Barry’s pace, though he was beginning to have difficulty coordinating movement between his brain and his hands.

Barry pressed against him in earnest now, muscles coiling tight just the way Len had imagined they would, and his litany of curses gave way to ragged breathing and sharp, hitching gasps. 

“Fuck, Barry, that’s it,” he groaned, and he pressed blindly up into the heat of Barry’s hand, eyes screwed shut as he felt his orgasm building. “Come on, I’ve got you Barry, I’ve got you—“ 

Barry arched against him with a sharp cry; it was loud, too loud, and Len knew he should try to quiet him. But god, fuck, Barry was spilling in his hand and shouting his name and that was all he could take, and he pressed his face into Barry’s neck to muffle his groan as he followed him over the edge. 

When Len came back to his senses, he was surprised that they weren’t staring down half of the administrative staff in their little study room. It was possible, narrowly, that Wells had gone to check on the others after leaving Barry; Len suspected they owed their friends for waylaying him long enough for him and Barry to, well. 

Len felt a prickle of embarrassment, though it seemed vague and of little real concern under his bone-deep satisfaction. Still, he hesitated before glancing at Barry, whom he was still sprawled half on top of. 

Barry had one arm thrown over his eyes, and Len’s embarrassment dissipated into a smug glow when he saw the faintly dazed expression on his face. 

“You okay there, Scarlet?” he asked, and Barry shifted his arm back to peer up at Len.

“How are you—god.” His eyes dropped shut again, but he stretched languidly before settling back in against his side. “Ask me again in five minutes.”

Len knew he was smiling like an idiot, but he couldn’t quite seem to bring it in check. He reached up to brush the hair off of Barry’s forehead, but winced when he felt the stickiness coating his fingers. 

He cast around for a towel of some sort, and the torn bra caught his eye. It took a ridiculous amount of effort to get Barry to lift his shoulders enough for him to drag it off, especially given that Barry insisted on pressing distracting kisses to whatever of Len’s skin passed in front of him. 

It was a little too flimsy to do the job, but it was what they had handy; besides that, it made Barry give Len a look that was ridiculously scandalized for someone who had just had sex on top of school property when he used it to clean Barry’s fingers for him.

“We should get dressed,” he said, unconvincing even to his own ears, and Barry dragged him back in for another kiss.

“You wrecked half my clothes,” Barry grumbled, and Len hid his grin against his neck. 

“I’ll just have to smuggle you out of here, then.”

Barry squinted at him suspiciously, but Len was already dragging himself into a sitting position and casting around for his jeans. 

“Are you serious?” he asked. He shifted up onto his elbows and watched Len as he dragged his boxers back up over his hips. “We’re just gonna leave?”

Len found Barry’s cheer top under the chair and tossed it to him, then pulled on his own shirt. When he got it over his head, he found Barry still reclining back on the table, naked except for the wrinkled skirt, which he had made a half-hearted attempt of straightening over his hips again. It was a pretty picture, and Len smirked as he leaned in to give Barry a lingering kiss. 

“I’ve got a spare helmet for that motorcycle you like so much,” he drawled when he pulled away, and Barry made a pleased affirmative noise as he swayed up to press his lips against Len’s again. 

“Besides,” he added, “I think I remember making some promises about you and a bed.”

Barry’s cheeks went pink, and Len traced his thumb over the blush fondly. 

“Yeah,” Barry said. He wrapped his arms around Len’s neck and gave a breathless laugh as Len pulled him up off the table. There was still a faint tremble to his limbs, but his smile was bright and sure when he ducked his head to look at Len. “Yeah, I think you did.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is not at all the first work I planned to post for this fandom, but it's the first one I finished so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. Comments are appreciated!


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